


The View of the Stars

by Starships



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Choking, Consent is Sexy, Dom Garrus is Best Garrus, Dom/sub, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, ME2, Oneshot, Oral, PWP, Porn, Rough Sex, Spanking, lots of fucking swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:05:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3502727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starships/pseuds/Starships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard hasn't been the same since coming back from the dead.</p>
<p>Garrus goes to help.</p>
<p>An interspecies dom/sub pornographic love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The View of the Stars

This used to be easy.

They used to be guns, and smoke, and then she died and now her eyes are wide and cold and husks explode before her, blood so bright and electric in the darkness, and that’s the only time she looks alive.

He hasn’t failed to notice that she’s covered the port in her cabin, blocking out the stars.

He hasn’t failed to notice how quickly she ushered him out, either.

Garrus used to be a welcome presence, but now her best friend is the pull of the trigger and the light of the Illusive Man he can see behind her eyes.

He doesn’t know what to do, so he waits. Every night her name is behind his eyelids, a fluttering mantra that speeds his heart up instead of helping him sleep. Every mission she wades ankle deep through Reaper blood, her sheer will the unstoppable tide of the war. 

If violence is the only language she understands now, fine. He doesn’t know much about humans, but he knows about bloodlust. And he knows about the dark that seeps in after everyone has died.

He won’t leave Shepard to the hollow ache where her heart used to be. 

He won’t.

 

The rocks have melted, and her whiskey is getting watery. 

She is, possibly, too drunk to notice. 

Flopped backwards on her bed, she stares defiantly at her skylight, stars racing overhead, willing her heart to calm and her head to stop spinning. Breathe in. Breathe out. 

Don’t think about the holes in the suit, molecules of air drifting lazily like dancers as everything shifts in slow motion, body hitting atmo belly first, fire at her front and ice at her back, lungs burning but collapsing and everything was like drowning as though all of nature ----

Her door pings. Her whiskey drops and shatters.

“Shit,” she swears. “Whichever _motherfucker_ —“

“Shepard?”

Garrus. Double shit.

“Hey, big guy,” she starts slowly, thinking the shape of every word before she says it, a vain attempt to not slur. 

“You,” he declares with a chuckle (rumbling so low in his chest), “are very, very drunk.”

She tries to affect an air of haughtiness. “…Nah,” she manages.

“I guess this wine I brought doesn’t matter.”

Jane fights a wave of nausea as she stands. “Don’t… don’t say wine.”

“If you insist,” he purrs, enjoying himself too much. He struts into the room, hips full of swagger, and if she had had less alcohol she would have known to be suspicious.

As it is she stares at his powerful legs and the way they ripple under his civvies. What would they do under her tongue? She’d take him in her mouth (whatever he hid under there, anyway, she isn’t picky), suck him until she choked and found out if he liked it when she let him pull her hair, fuck her mouth—

“Commander,” he begins, interrupting her but definitely noticing her stare.

She… does not know why she feels like this. Maybe she really hasn’t been drunk around him, not since...

Maybe she hasn’t felt like this since she died at all.

The thought is almost, but not quite, sobering. 

“You know, Jane,” and there, that’s jarring, he hasn’t used her first name before, “I think I know exactly what you need.”

If you asked her later, she would blame the whiskey and say she blacked out and couldn’t remember. But Commander Fucking Shepard gulped and blushed like a teenage girl. 

“D’you?” she stumbles on the words, covers it with a cough, tries again. “Do you now?”

His face has become very, very close. He’s leaned in, mandibles brushing her cheek. She’s sure he’s grinning. “Yeah,” he murmurs, right in her ear, and there, that’s heat in her belly and she’s probably getting wet, maybe she was already, but it doesn’t matter because he’s swept a knee behind hers and knocked her to the floor.

She is definitely too dazed to realize a fight is coming. She should really learn to fuck her open door policy and lock her god damn door.

But Garrus is on her, growling, fist aiming at her face and hitting the deck of her cabin as she instinctively rolls to the side. Dimly she realizes how fucked up she is – was the whole bottle gone? – and knows he must just be riling her up, not actually fighting. But her blood is roaring and damn it, it’s working.

“You big, scaly –“ she tries to uppercut and misses – “Raptor—“ Spin kick – “ _Ass_!”

He’s laughing, doesn’t even care, she’s so easy to dodge. Furious human fists and feet and slurred insults. It’s so easy to give her a shove and topple her over again, and her blood is really starting to boil.

Good. She hasn’t hit something that hits back in far too long. 

He didn’t think she’d headbutt him, though. 

Wincing and clutching his face in surprise, he reels back and wonders if he’s bleeding. Doesn’t matter, she’s coming at him fast, ducking down and swinging her fist back right above his spur. 

Spirits, that hurts. He hits the ground hard and stares at her, but she’s already recovered, stood, and is marching away from him toward her desk. The fight is over.

"Damn it, Garrus," she mutters, looking sober. Well, more sober. His mandibles widen.

“Jane?”

Furiously, she punches open a locker under the desk and withdraws another bottle of whiskey. He’s not sure how many she has under there. Enough to kill a krogan, probably.

“It’s the cybernetics,” she says, swigging straight from the bottle. “Can’t get drunk enough after Cerberus. Ryncol, probably. But I’ve got to drink this shit like it’s water.” And she does.

“Did you just come here to fight, Garrus?”

Her eyes are accusing. He doesn’t care. He’s going to fight her, or fuck her. She needs someone to trigger something. If that something is what he fantasizes about alone in his bunk, well… He lets his hand trail up his thigh from where he sits, staring at her. Let her interpret it however she wants.

“Yes,” he says honestly. 

Mostly honestly. 

Her gaze is rooted on his thigh, the talons that draw closer. 

She really, really wants those in her back.

“Too bad,” she says, tonguing a drop of liquor from the lip of the bottle. “I’m all out of fight for the day. Try again tomorrow.”

“You’re never out of fight, Jane.”

She does not shiver at the use of her name. She doesn’t.

“How would you know? What do you even remember after all these years? Christ knows I don’t know shit about me, I don’t see how you could.”

The words cut, and are uncalled for. Good. She wants to hurt something that matters, and Garrus is there and willing.

He rises slowly, deliberately. She can see every muscle. Each boot hits the floor of her quarters, silent, and she’s reminded how much he’s really a predator.

Stalking her. She can’t come up with a single other word for it.

“I remember how you smell when you fight,” he begins, and there, that should be creepy, but it isn’t. “I love it. The gun oil you can’t ever get off of your hands, the way they slide through your hair when you’re pissed and the blood that gets stuck in your armor.” 

He’s so close, face sliding along her neck, disturbing the air next to her but not touching. He breathes deep. Smells her. “Usually not your blood,” he continues, “but when it is…”

She chokes in some air and sets the whiskey loudly on the desk before she drops it. “When it is, what?”

His mouth opens, teeth brushing her skin in a clear threat. He could tear her open. She’s always known that. 

But then his tongue is on her skin, clavicle to just below her ear, and maybe that’s not a threat. Maybe that’s something else. She’s definitely wet now.

“I think about tasting you,” he says, chest rumbling. “At night, when I know you’re up here, not sleeping. I could shove my tongue into you.”

His talons rest at her hips, their blunted points pressing into the flesh of her ass. She wants him to press harder. 

He’s whispering in her ear, now.

“What would you sound like, Jane?”

He digs in harder. She whimpers.

“That’s a good start,” he says. 

“Do it, then,” she says, eyes burning with challenge. 

“Hmm,” he murmurs. Slides his hands up to her shoulders, rests them by her face. Presses his mouth to hers in an approximation of a human kiss, and she’s thrown by how tender it is.

“Jane. What could I possibly have done,” and his hands are pushing her to the floor, to her knees before him, “to give you the impression that you’re still in charge?”

His eyes are on fire. She’s never seen him like this before.

She loves it.

Leaning forward, she nuzzles her face over his crotch, making his breath hitch. Opens her mouth to suck the head of him through the fabric of his pants, laving him with tongue, leaving a wet patch, holding eye contact. He threads his talons into her hair and fists it, thrusts against her hot mouth, holds her down by her hair until he’s sure her jaw hurts and his pants are soaked. 

“Jane,” he grits out, free hand coming down to cup her cheek. She blinks up at him, mouth red and slick. “Just say stop and I will, okay?”

He watches realization come over her face slowly.

He’s going to _ruin_ her.

And she wants him to.

Her chest constricts and she lowers her eyes so he won’t see what she’s feeling, the sting in her eyes as she realizes he came up here just for her, just for this. Just to show that she could trust him, take from him.

She reaches up and squeezes his cock, hard enough for her to earn punishment if they were an hour or so further along in their evening. She stares into his eyes, blue and maybe just a little nervous, and slowly nods. 

He unclips his visor. Sets it on the desk. Slow, deliberate. 

She sits back on her haunches and clasps her hands behind her back, kneeling forward to lick the whole length of his dick through his clothes. He groans.

He wasn’t prepared for her to be so submissive so fast. He’s pretty sure it’s a ruse, anyway. It doesn’t matter.

He’ll find out.

He reaches down and slides a single finger into her mouth, stares as her eyes roll back and she sucks it, tongues the talon. His other hand unsnaps his pants and he takes himself in hand.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, subharmonics lower and rougher than he’s used to hearing. She’s always gotten him hot, late and alone in his bunk, but he never expected her being at his mercy to make him a weak kneed fledgeling. 

She does, holds her position, doesn’t lean forward to take him in her mouth. Waits for him to go to her.

Waits for him to fuck her mouth.

_Fuck._

He teases her lips first, drags the dark blue head of his cock across her lower lip, and she whimpers and reaches out with her tongue before he grabs her hair and pulls her head off him.

“I didn’t say suck,” he growls.

And then all at once he shoves in, holds her face in place and he’s in that hot mouth of hers, the one so used to barking orders and screaming amidst gunfire. He’s pushing past her tongue and she’s obeying, leaving her mouth limp around him, waiting for his order as he eases gently in to see how far he can push her without gagging her. 

“Suck,” he orders, and almost blacks out when she does, tongue laving the underside and throat working him even deeper than he had dared to push her. Tighter and wetter than anything he’d ever had on him, and she’s playing with his bumps and ridges like someone just gave her real ice cream and told her to take her time.

She’s slow, deliberate, in control.

He needs to break that.

He tugs gently at her hair. “Don’t stop,” he says. “Stand up. I’m going to move you.”

It’s awkward business but she rises with his cock still in her mouth until he seats her on the chair, and she’s hunched over and then he fucks her, deep in her throat and she chokes in surprise. He pulls out a little.

“Okay?” he asks.

She squeezes his shaft and nods, kisses the side of his cock. “I promise I’ll say stop if I need to.”

He nods, trusting her like she’s trusting him. 

“Touch yourself,” he orders. Commander Shepard, not usually one for shyness, hesitates as her hands flutter unsurely over her sleep shirt. She stops, doesn’t make it to her breast. He steps forward, pressing his cock back into her mouth, holding her down on it by the hair, and growls out, “I gave you a fucking order.”

Her eyes roll back and her hand slips down, stretching out the waistband of her black standard issues, fingers struggling for purchase on her slit. 

“How wet are you?”

Unable to answer around his cock in her mouth, she draws her hand out and rubs her slick fingers along the base of him, dragging them up to her mouth to lick them clean while sucking him. 

She’s no champ at turian facial expressions yet, but even she knows he’s smug. 

“Keep going,” he says, and she does, fingers eagerly diving back inside this time, three straight in, prepping for his size. She doesn’t know what his plans are, this night has been so far off what she expected, but she plans to ride him until she can’t walk to the bed. 

It was time to stop using that bed just for forgetting. She needed a memory she wanted to remember, needed to make something new.

She pumps her fingers hard enough that he can hear how wet she is. His thrusts falter, talons pulling her off of him by the hair. Her mouth is shining with saliva, face flushed, and she stops to look at him for his next order. 

He reaches behind her to cup her ass, draws back and slaps it. The sound rings through the cabin, her gasp echoing in his ears. He licks her neck and whispers in her ear, “Did I say stop?”

She leans back in the desk chair and spreads her legs wide, giving Garrus a view he’s never even dreamed of in such detail before. Her left hand pulls her panties to the side, and her right unceremoniously thrusts back in, and he has to choke back the sounds trying to bubble out of his mouth.

“No, sir,” she purrs. 

Oh, fuck. He could get used to that.

He kneels in front of her, grasping her small looking knees and shoving them farther apart. Slides his talons to the sides of her panties and tears them off her, a simple flick of his fingers. Leaning in and inhaling, his mind overwhelmed with sweet salty bitter and the absolutely lewd sound of her fucking herself. He closes his eyes and darts his long tongue forward, and she keens, curling her toes and shifting her hand to make room for him. He pulls her fingers from her and moves them to her clit, tongue slipping down to lap at her entrance before shoving inside, pressing forward and up, feeling softness and wetness he never thought possible. She was shivering above him, crying out and fucking her clit hard and fast, fingertips a blur. All her muscles are tensing, she’s so fucking close to seeing stars that aren’t terrifying, chanting his name like a prayer to her new god –

“I’m gonna come, Garrus, I— _fuck_ —“

But then he’s slapping her hand away and she’s screaming in frustration, his talons are under her and he’s picking her up, slamming her on the desk, hand lightly at her throat as she thrusts her cunt up into empty air, begging for friction.

“I didn’t fucking tell you to come,” he growls, and she clenches, starts to beg. 

“Please. Please let me come, Garrus, please.”

His hand tightens. “What did you call me?”

“Sir,” she amends. “Please, fuck me, come in me, please,” she begs. “Sir.”

He lines himself up and thrusts into her, hard. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” she cries, biting down on his shoulder and already picking up her hips and swirling them on his cock, desperately fucking up and down on his girth. 

He is so fucking thick. 

“Jane,” he gasps, snapping forward with his hips so hard she skids back on the desk, bottoming out in her pussy. 

He stares down at where they join, his dark blue shaft disappearing into her swollen pink lips, and thinks he might lose his mind. He’s never seen anything so beautiful.

She can’t even pretend to get purchase on the desk anymore, just hangs onto him as him rams his entire width as deep and hard as he can. It hurts and she can’t ever remember feeling better. 

His hand, still at her throat, tightens just to the edge of uncomfortable, and while he other grips the desk to support them both. “Touch yourself,” he says.

She does, tightens on his cock, fingers flying over her clit, screams, moans –

“Stop,” he orders, tone brokering no negotiation. Somehow, she does, sobbing into his shoulder and humping herself over his cock. He loves her desperation. She’s already begged; needs to know that doesn’t get her anything. She comes when he says she does, no matter what.

“Again,” he demands.

Again her fingertips touch her swollen clit, enormous by now with the need to come. It’s so sensitive it hurts and she leans into the pain, just the motion of him fucking her and shifting her fingers enough to get her right on the brink. 

“Can I?” she gasps.

“No.”

Her teeth find his neck, the only thing in her reach, and bite down hard, worrying his skin and breaking the blood vessels. He'll have a mark in the morning. But he just grabs her by the ass and fuckers her harder, something she didn’t think possible, until she feels like her teeth in his skin are the only anchor she has anywhere in her life. 

It feels like coming home.

She comes, the jostling and friction of being so harshly fucked enough on her tender tissue to bring her over the edge. Her cunt squeezes him, milks his swollen shaft, and with a roar he comes with her, adding his wetness to hers, making her pussy tired and aching and sloppy. 

There’s too much, his seed already hitting the desk, her data pads, her thighs. 

They are both surprised at how comfortable the mess feels.

She sighs deeply, her body boneless and collapsed in his embrace. He’s released her neck to stroke her hair, untangling it gently with his talons.

“Jane?” he asks, suddenly unsure of himself now that it’s all over.

“Garrus,” she says mournfully. “I came.”

Surprised, he musters the strength to lean back and meet her eyes. “Is that bad?”

She laughs. “You told me not to.”

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I’m going to spank you raw before I let you sleep.”

Her chuckle turns to a yawn, and she pulls his head back down to her shoulder. “Good. Just… give me a minute.”

“Sure,” he says, subharmonics warm with meaning he would tell her about later. 

And as he carries her to bed and she settles on her hands and knees, ass held in the air and the first slap of his palm ringing down, she thinks the sting of him and the roughness of his plates and the familiarity of his eyes have all come down to this point, his hand on her skin, a single moment of life so vibrant she is sure she is on fire.

When she comes again a second time it is to the view of the stars above her and Garrus below her, and for the first time since waking up she is no longer afraid.


End file.
